oh, if only
by Gorshenin
Summary: AU. gp!brittana. 'Your crush, this idea of me that you've made up in your head, that's not who I am. I can't match any of that. I can't make any of those dreams come true.'
1. Chapter 1

You pull your coat tighter around your shoulders and glare at everything you can. You shouldn't be awake at three in the morning, nor should you be two hours away from home, and frankly you probably never should've entered this building for any reason in your entire life.

But you're here. Standing on the thick red line etched into the floor tiles and waiting to be called forward. The man behind the glass window waves you on—_finally,_ like what else has he been doing for the past ten minutes, you're the only person in this waiting room—and asks you how he can help.

"I need to post my friend's bail," your voice is gruff and angry. You've never posted a bail before, you're a little self-conscious but mostly you're worried out of your mind. You shouldn't be in a police department at three in the morning but when she had called you, there was no way you could say anything but that you would be there as soon as you could.

He clicks away on his computer and studies the screen, an odd smile worms its way onto his face. His voice is downright slimy, "Oh, you must be here for _John_."

You frown, not needing his presumptuous ass to prolong this any further, "No, I'm looking for a woman, Brittany Pierce."

He takes the tone of your voice for a warning and goes through the rest of the procedure as some sort of professional. There is a lot of paperwork, a lot of your personal information being filing into their system on the off chance Brittany doesn't make her court date, and a lot of money being exchanged for her ticket home. You don't know what happened, Brittany wouldn't say over the phone. You trust her to pay you back and to make her court date, that's all a given. Right now all you're worried about is finding out if she's alright.

"Thank you, ma'am," he takes back the clipboard of paperwork.

While he's making sure everything is filled out, another officer exits the heavy looking double doors at the end of the hall. There are two people behind him. One man, dark hair with an even darker look in his eye. The mohawk matches his leather jacket and torn jeans. The woman next to him is too pretty to be in this dump, she might have just walked out some high end fancy pants magazine. Her dress is a pristine sort of innocent and the wedge heels are very cute. Oddly enough, you could swear you've seen that jacket before. They're speaking softly and you catch a part of their conversation as they pass.

"This is what happens when you work off the books, Quinn," he rubs his face and growls. "Damian is going to have my ass if he ever finds out about it."

Her eyes flicker to yours for just a moment, and you see such a stark judgment it offends you. She has no right to be eyeballing you for being here when she's standing on the other side of the room. She looks away and tells the man, "I'll take care of Damian, just get me home."

You did not expect her to be the one that needed bailing out, you thought he must have been whoever the officer thought you were looking for, John something.

There isn't time to dwell on it, the officer that showed them out turns to you, "Ma'am, you're welcome to follow me, or I can bring 'em to you. Either way, don't matter none."

You'd really like to get to Brittany as soon as possible, "I'll come with you."

It's just that you need to see that she's alright. You need to get her out of this place and find out what happened. There's no doubt in your mind that this is all a misunderstanding. There is no way Brittany really deserves to be in a county jail right now. Not the Brittany you know, the one that volunteers at homeless shelters and recycles and cried when that guy ran over a squirrel in the parking lot of your office building. Not your Brittany.

No, she doesn't belong here and you need to get her out as soon as possible. This woman has the brightest smile and the kindest heart you've ever known and sitting in a jail cell is tarnishing that in a way you can't handle. Brittany is special to you. She's the light in your dreary little world and even if she doesn't know how much she means to you.

He takes you behind the door and down a concrete hall. It smells damp in here, musky, and gross. Footfalls echo uncomfortably against unforgiving walls and all the color is washed out by even harsher fluorescent lights. You see the door of bars at the end of the hall near another desk. You look around for that John character but the only one slumped on a bench against the back wall of the cell is Brittany. She's holding her face in her hands and wishing she could go back in time.

You want to hug her.

"Brittany," you wrap your arms around yourself as the man goes for the lock. She looks up, her eyes red and unfocused. She's so tired and probably been crying. She's small and scared. You want to make this better somehow.

"Bails been posted, you're good to go."

He slides the cell door open and Brittany stands slowly, crossing the cell on shaky feet. You reach for her arm as soon as she's passed the threshold—she flinches away from you, eyes on the dirty floor, lips pulled into a thin line.

And it stings.

"Britt," your voice is quiet, more pleading than you'd like. "Are you okay? What happened?"

"Can we get out of here?" she breathes tightly, edging around you to get to down the hall.

You just drove to the city in the middle of the night and gave up an entire paycheck to get her out of _jail_ and she won't even look at you?

Well, fine.

You cross your arms again, a little stiffer this time, and follow her out of the building. She's already at your car when you walk out of the police station, grabbing the passenger's side door handle, and waiting so very impatiently. Her shoulders are shaking and you're not sure if it's from the cold or because she's so out of it. You notice she isn't wearing a jacket.

"Where's your car?" you unlock the car with your remote. The lights flash in the dark parking lot, she flinches.

Her breath is visible when she says, "It's safe. I'll deal with it in the morning."

Brittany slips into the car before you can ask another question. You get the hint. She doesn't want to talk to you about this. You can tell that she didn't even want to have to call you. So you get in the driver's seat, start the car, crank up the heat, and making sure to point the vents her way when they start to warm. She doesn't take her eyes away from the window, or sing to the radio like she usually does. You're not even sure she's awake until she whispers, "I'll pay you back for the bail money. By the end of the week, I promise."

"I know you will," the words sound rough in the stretched space between you, in the void of all the things she's not telling you. "I trust you, Brittany."

Her fists clench into tight balls on her thighs, offended by your choice of words and how it implicates her.

If you trust her so much, she should trust you with this.

You give her time, just in case she wants to offer an explanation. She doesn't. She sits staring out the window, stone silent. It bothers you. She's a good friend of yours, admittedly your closest. You didn't think that you had secrets from each other. Granted, you're not the most open person in the world, but Brittany is the only person that's ever been able to get past that, to help you open up. She's kind and friendly and she makes you feel like you're someone worth knowing.

Why doesn't she want you to know her?

"What's this all about?" you ask softly, as if the volume of your voice will help.

She doesn't answer. She doesn't even look your way. You let her sit, you think about all the things she could have been arrested for. You think of the worst case scenarios and ones that don't even make sense.

"Seriously, should I be worried about you?"

That's all you want to know, if there's something wrong.

"Are you in trouble? Is there something I can do to help?"

This time she shakes her head, giving you an answer while explaining nothing.

"No, I can't help? Or no, I shouldn't be worried?"

Again, she doesn't answer. You've never seen her like this, prickly like a cornered animal. Tension floats around the car with as much grace as a tornado. For the first time, you don't know what to say to her, you don't know how she'll to react to all the words bubbling inside your breath. You don't really know anything. Miles pass and now you're driving through her subdivision, this is your last chance.

"Britt?"

She turns herself even further from you and mumbles, "You can't help me, but you shouldn't be worried about it. There's nothing you can do."

You're not so sure, "What were you doing out there?"

"Nothing, Santana. Please, just drop it," her voice is clipped in a way she never uses with you.

It hurts.

A tiny house of cards falls from your heart and lands in the pit of your stomach.

You put on an angry face to keep the wounded feeling away, "Don't tell me it's nothing when I just bailed you out of jail. It's going on four in the morning, what the hell kind of _nothing _lands you in jail at _three in the morning?_"

Glancing away from the road, you see her jaw strained and her frown in the reflection of the window.

"Drugs?" you throw out into the space between you. "You did that shit in college and I know work's been crazy, is that what this is?"

She turns sharply, her blue eyes catching the light from the dashboard clock and it's such a warning—you ignore it.

"Well?" you lift a hand from the steering wheel for a frustrated huff. "Did you pick a fight with someone?"

"Stop it."

"Did it have something to do with that girl that walked out with your jacket? Did she catch you in the corner of a bar with her mohawked boyfriend? Did she get you into this mess?"

Her expression changes, her eyes harden and her shoulders stiffen and you know you've gotten somewhere. You want to keep up with the questions, you almost pass the entrance to her apartment complex on purpose, but the way she's acting with you... it scares you to push too far. So you pull into her lot and Brittany's hand is on the door before you even come to a complete stop.

"Hey," you grab her wrist over the center console. She stops, one foot on the pavement, hair falling over her face and still refusing to speak. "Who is she? Did she hurt you?"

"No," she tugs at her wrist, frustrated with you. "She wouldn't hurt me. Let go."

You do. Thankfully, she stays in the car.

"She's your friend?"

Brittany shakes her head, her hair swaying with the movement, catching the streetlights and turning the usually golden color orange. You don't know what is going on, how to help, you don't know... her. You don't know who she is right now, in this moment. Why is she so withdrawn from you? So cold? Can't she see you're scared for her? That you're worried?

"Then she's your..." your heart feels like ice when your mind swings to the next conclusion. You remember the conversation overheard by the woman in Brittany's jacket. Quietly you repeat the name the officer gave you at the desk. "You're her John—she was a hooker."

Brittany disappears, the car door slamming in your face startles you out of your seat. You're scrambling around the hood and after your friend.

"Britt, wait," you catch her arm and again she jerks away from you. It wounds you, and the hurt must show on your face because she hesitates, for just one moment she hesitates, then she's turning back towards the building's door.

You have to stop her because somehow you know that if she walks away she'll shut you out. You will never find out why this happened.

So you throw out the first thing on your mind, "I don't get it, you could have anyone."

By anyone, you mean you.

Brittany is… she's so special to you. She's a dream and you've—you've always wondered if you stood a chance, but she's taking up with prostitutes. The ones with perfect blonde hair and regal wardrobes and are the exact opposite of everything you are. It's a rejection you weren't prepared for.

Your voice trembles a little when you ask, "Why would you need to get a call girl?"

"You don't know anything about what I need," she throws the reply over her shoulder and keeps heading for the door. "You have no idea."

"Obviously, it's something only money can buy."

Reproachful blue eyes flash at you, "That's real nice, Santana. Thanks."

You're getting angry, because how the hell does she not know that people are lined up for her. You flush, ashamed of yourself, "I know you don't date much and you've always been shy but–"

She pauses in front of her building's door, putting her hands over her face, "Please, let this go."

"—that doesn't mean you can't try for something _real_ with people that _care_ about you."

"You don't get it—"

"You don't have to waste your time with some streetwalker when you could have anyone you want—"

"No one would want me!" her voice breaks and her hands tremble when she pulls them away from her face. "No one has ever wanted me once they—they knew me like that! Jesus, that woman—she's the only one that's ever given me a chance. I can be _myself_ with her and fucking god," she shakes her head, tears brimming in her eyes, the most defeated expression on her face. "I just never—I don't get that with anyone else."

In the cold night, with your breath fogging the air, you feel like you're finally seeing her clearly. How did you miss this profound sadness she's drowning in? How did you miss the shadows in her eyes? The ever present tension in her shoulders? The skittish way her shyness slips into severance?

How did you miss her isolation?

While you try realign the world around you, she's rambling, bitter and embarrassed, to fill the silence, "And even if it is for one hour, and I have to fucking pay for it, you don't know what that means to me—you don't have _any idea_."

You're small and crest fallen. Your words barely make it beyond the wind, "You don't feel like you can be yourself around me?"

Behind her eyes, there's a trace of recognition. Maybe she can see what's going on in your head. Maybe she knows how much she means to you, that you have no idea how she can think so little of herself when you think the world of her and you would be that person for her and...

She closes her eyes and looks away from you.

"It's different. We're friends from work, that's it. You have no right to question—_or judge_ me about this."

Your shoulders crumple and you drop your eyes to the ground. That hurt more than the idea of her with a hooker.

"I really... thank you, for getting me home," she tells you as she turns away. "If you wouldn't say anything to anyone..."

"You don't have to ask."

Shoving your hands in your jacket pockets, you hunch against the wind and watch her unlock the door of her building. She pushes through without looking back and you're left on her porch, wishing you knew... anything at all.

Try as you might, you can't make sense of this. The world is wrong and you don't want to be a part of it anymore.


	2. Chapter 2

The network building's entrance is buzzing even in the early hours of the morning. Large fans blast hot air from the ceiling as you walk in, clapping your hands together to get some feeling back in your fingers.

"It's about time you all celebrate my arrival. Could have used a red carpet, though."

Turning around, you to find an amused face.

"Hey, Mercedes," your greeting is decorated with rolling eyes.

She laughs, "Good morning, Santana."

You pause a moment so she can walk beside you. "I saw your scoop on the city council's fraudulent spending. That was good work. You running a follow up or did we piss off too many people?"

"Oh, we pissed off plenty of people. Grace told me her car was towed for some bullshit parking violation outside a restaurant last night," Mercedes tells you quietly, a smirk playing across her lips, "but we're already drafting the second segment."

Her conspiratorial grin is contagious and you find yourself smiling along, "Go get 'em, those pricks deserve what's coming."

"You know that's right."

She tells you about what she'll be covering that day and mentions a project that you're collaborating on. You're about to respond when she changes the topic completely, "When's Brittany coming back?"

"Um," you take off your scarf for something to do, "she's only been out a few days."

Brittany hasn't been to work since spending Saturday night in a cell.

You wanted to think that her time off had nothing to do with that horrible argument on her doorstep, but you're not kidding yourself anymore. She didn't even bother to give you a heads up about skipping work and she hasn't taken any of your calls. It's probably the rudest thing she's ever done in her life and it's breaking your heart.

"First, that's not what I asked," Mercedes eyes you despite your attempt to act casually. "Second, it's so obvious that her replacement is an idiot."

That is not the most comforting thing to hear.

"You don't know the half of it," you mutter. "Is it that bad?"

"The footage looks like it was shot with a camera phone and a flashlight," Mercedes sends you a sympathetic frown. She'll always be honest with you, which has helped more than it's hurt. "When's Britt coming back?"

"I don't know."

It's uncomfortable to admit, because by the way her eyes widen, she was expecting you to have the kind of relationship that you thought you and Brittany shared. The kind where you confide in each other. Or share basic information like when you're coming back into work. Either would be great at this point.

"What do you mean you don't know? She didn't tell you?"

"No," you say with a tight frown. "She didn't even tell me she was taking time off, why would she let me know when she's coming back."

Mercedes stops in the hall, "Are we sure she's alive?"

"Don't be dramatic."

"No really, you two have been a thing since—oh my god," her eyes get impossibly larger and she pulls you by the jacket to the side of the hallway. "Did something happen between the two of you? You know, a little something _something_?"

A flush with the power to end this winter's cold front heats up your face.

"Are you kidding me right now?" you hold up your scarf to hide your face from the people passing in the hallway. "We're not talking about this here, and no, nothing like that happened."

"So she didn't find out about your massive crush on her and decide that quitting her job is the best way to get away from your crazy?"

"It's not massive—"

"This thing you got for Brittany is so big it has its own gravitational pull."

You pinch the bridge of your nose, "Why am I friends with you again?"

She laughs at that, but it's warm and friendly.

A studio assistant appears at around the corner, "Miss Jones, we're ready for you in makeup."

"I'll be right there," Mercedes sends her away and turns back to you. "Seriously, Santana, get your girl back to work. You need her."

There's more truth to that then she knows.

"Good luck today," you offer as she walks away.

"Honey, luck is for fools," Mercedes sends you a wink and disappears around the corner.

You sigh.

You've been wishing for luck since the day you met Brittany Pierce.

* * *

"Got a hot one, Santana!"

You've just taken off your coat when you hear your name called across the newsroom. It's your boss and production manager, Grace Hitchens. She's holding a file that's probably going to be your next story and you pray to the heavens that whatever it is, _it's_ _inside_.

"What's up?" you ask, reaching to take the file when she gets to your desk.

"Just got a tip about an animal welfare raid that's happening this morning," she glances at her watch. "If you leave now you can make it out there before the ASPCA show up and get their arrival on camera."

Your eyes skim the preliminary and her handwritten notes, "You want me to stand outside a ranch? It's twelve degrees outside!"

Grace smiles, picking up your coat and holding it open for you, "You know what they say, rain, sleet, or snow."

"That's the postal service," you grumble, turning around to slip into the coat, "not the local news."

"Stop by Blaine's desk on your way out. I hear he has hand warmers."

"I'd rather freeze to death."

She squeezes your shoulder, "I know it's not the best weather, but I need a solid positivity piece to round out the political gambit Mercedes and Tina are dropping later this week."

"Since when am I your fluff girl?"

"That's what I love about you, Santana. You can do it all—fluff, drama, scandal and sirens. You're my girl when I need something done."

"You're full of shit."

"So are you, that's why we're so good at this job. Now, your truck's on its way. Text Robin when you get on site."

"Fine, fine," you sigh, taking the file and heading off. "We'll get you some teasers as soon as we can."

"Good, everything should be in the workup, but I'll send updates if they come. Stay warm!"

"Ha!"

* * *

Twelve degrees. It might hit twenty by the time you get onsite, set up, and ready to roll. You're praying for the small miracle of sunshine. At least then you can pretend it's warmish. Thankfully, it doesn't take long for a large van to pull along the curb in front of you. The SNX Channel 6 News Team logo flashes in the garage lights. It reminds you why you love this job.

Climbing into the large bench seat, you don't even glance at your horrible replacement partner before barking, "This drive is gonna take three fucking hours, so please don't speak until we swing by Starbucks."

"I already picked up our coffee."

It's not the voice you were expecting and you nearly jump right back out of the van, "Jesus Christ—Brittany, you can't just sneak up on people like that!"

"What do you mean sneak up? You got into _my_ van," she frowns, taking one hand off the steering wheel to gesture at you. "Didn't you think I would be in here?"

With a tight scowl, you push your hair behind your ear and settle into the seat, "No, actually, you haven't been here for a week, without so much as a text to say _hey, I'm taking an entire week off, okay bye_. So, no. No, I didn't think you would be in here."

She looks away from you, tapping her finger against the steering wheel like she does when she's anxious in traffic. You feel bad for snapping, but she caught you off guard. The silence stretches too thin and you look around the van to distract yourself.

There's two cups of coffee steaming in the brackets on the center console. You can tell by the scribble on the side of the paper cup that it's your favorite order. Brittany has learned all your favorites over the years. Coffee, fast food, dine ins, and delivery. She can figure out what you're in the mood for before you even say it. She's always been the best part of these early mornings and late nights. She has a way of making the long hours a little easier.

It's just that, for a terrible moment, you thought that when she did come back to the network, she wouldn't want to come back to you.

Honestly, you can't imagine this job without Brittany. You've been partners for years, three, nearly four. Four years. One van. Countless stories. Endlessly late nights and laughably early mornings.

But her words ring in your head and harden your heart.

You're just a friend from work.

It's frigid outside. Somehow the hollow in your chest feels colder than any other part of your body.

"I needed space," Brittany says it like that's supposed to mean something to you.

Space.

She needed space and now you're absolutely suffocating in this silence.

But she's trying, you think, to remind you of the way you work so well together. She picks up the coffee—the one meant for you, and gives you the tiniest of smiles, "I have the coffee if you have the address?"

You take the coffee cup with a shaking hand and whisper, "Head for the interstate."

It's not what you were expecting. Although, you're not sure what that was anyway. She's not meeting your eyes and even though she asks about the assignment, she hardly looks like she wants to talk about anything but work. Which is fine, you think, in a way. You're not really sure where you stand with her anymore so what are you really supposed to talk about?

"Are we going north or south?" Brittany asks.

Directions, apparently.

You glance down to the phone in your lap where Google Maps is blinking up at you, "Take the north ramp."

Brittany flips the van's blinker and pulls onto the interstate. The roads are depressingly empty this early in the morning. Moonlight and streetlamps glimmer on the pavement. It's far too familiar to that night to be comfortable. You're sure Brittany's thinking the same thing, everything about her posture is simply screaming pins and needles. Instead of stressing about it you sip your coffee and flip through Grace's findings.

It's not a long trip across town. The directions take you off the interstate and down a few smaller roads. The heater rattles, reminding you of your impending death by hypothermia. You should have brought your iPod to drown out the drama.

"I think this is it," Brittany swings the van around to park facing the ranch's entrance. "Doesn't look like animal control are here yet."

The 'ranch' is really only a large plot of land someone wanted to turn into a petting zoo. It looks like a pit. The fence is barely standing and you're sure the animal pens behind the main building are worse than that. How on earth are you going to turn this into a fluff piece?

"This is going to be horrible."

"Yeah, might as well get started."

Brittany slips out of the van and you follow her lead, meeting at the back doors. She's wearing her usual khaki pants and SNX6 pullover fleece. You briefly wonder if she's warm enough. Then again, she gets to wear a knit cap, which you are insanely jealous of. The frigid wind is going to be murder on your ears and hair.

"Your fanny," Brittany hands you the neoprene pouch from her equipment racks.

It's an old joke but you think she's trying to break the ice a little. So you give her a lighthearted grumble, "It's not a fanny pack."

You make sure the wireless transmitter is on and not muted before slipping it under your jacket and fastening it around your waist. The transmitter sits in the small of your back, hidden easily under the material of your jacket. Brittany is busy checking your microphone's battery to by the time you finish that. She's great with the equipment. You've never had any technical difficulties due to user error or poor planning. Brittany always has a backup, and a backup for that backup.

She hands you the microphone, "It's off, but we'll start up soon. I want to get a teaser moving up to the scene. You know, with the ragged sign in the background."

"One of your the Walking Dead expositions?"

"Yeah, maybe open on that field and pan to the gross looking shack over there."

Brittany explains a little bit more of her idea while she straps on a backpack of lighting gear and lifts her camera onto her shoulder.

Then she asks you, "Mic on?"

"Mic on," you flip thing over to show Brittany the light for confirmation, because Brittany is a checker. Her attention to detail is something to be reckoned with. She's always been like that and it has done wonders for your program so you're going to let her keep the inspection routine.

Then she checks you.

It's a toe to head thing that she does. You asked her once why she even bothers looking at your feet if they're not going to be in the shot, but she told you that she wants to makes sure your shoes are tied, or that your heels are safe for the type of ground that you're walking on because she doesn't want you to fall.

"I'll change into galoshes when Animal Control gives us the okay to follow along."

She nods at that and continues. Brittany's always liked this pair of slacks—she's complimented you on them a couple of times—so those pass, too. There shouldn't be much she can say about your usual SNX6 thermal jacket but her inspection hits a snag.

"You got a," Brittany points to your jacket and then to her own collar. You look down, trying to figure out what's wrong.

This is familiar, Brittany helping you stay camera ready. It's something you've always been thankful for. Brittany is a woman, she knows when your makeup is off and when to suggest that you fix your hair. Brittany knows what your best looks like. With her camera and careful consideration, she makes sure that everyone sees it too.

"Here, let me."

Then she steps closer, tilting her camera off to the side so it won't be in her way when she reaches for you.

You've worked in broadcasting for years now. Lights, camera, a breath to clear your head, action. You can't say that you really get nervous anymore. The rush of live news gives you more adrenalin than anxiety. But when Brittany reaches for you, it's like the worst case of stage fright you've ever had.

Your breath stalls, shoulders going stiff. When she threads her fingers under your collar, following the material around your neck and over your shoulder, you can't think, or move, or even pray. You watch her eyes, for their concentration, their pretty blue color. There isn't a hint of fog between the two of you, so maybe she's holding her breath too. Then she brings her hand back the same way, folding your collar neatly in place.

You stutter, words spilling out, "I'm glad you came back."

She freezes, hand still on your jacket. Her eyes dance between yours until she says, "Me too."

Your heart swells, for a moment you can't feel the cold.

Her hand drops away, "That idiot they assigned you doesn't know a thing about lighting."

"You watched?"

She turns away to close the van's doors but you can still hear her say, "Yeah, of course."

It's obvious that Brittany wants to stay focused on work, so you let her lead you around the van and through the soundbites.

* * *

"We're a go in three," Brittany tells you, resettling her camera on her shoulder. "You got it?"

She's smiling, and it's a real smile this time. She loves this job, she's good at it. Working with her again, it makes you realize what you'd been missing.

"I got it," you tell her with a small smile, running though the shot plan one more time in your head.

"_Com check. Santana, do I have you?"_

"You got me, Grace."

The receiver in your ear is hot, the mic in your hand is on, and Brittany's camera light is winking at you. Your rubber galoshes squeak when you walk, but it's a lot better than ruining your nice boots in all this animal crap.

Mercedes's voice buzzes through the network earpiece, _"And now we take you live to our senior correspondent, Santana Lopez, on the scene of an animal rescue just outside the city limits. Good morning, Santana."_

"Good morning, Mercedes," your delivery is impeccable. "I'm on sight with the American Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals at Murphy's City Circus on Weston Road."

You tell the camera the story, neighbors complaining about smells and noises, an owner peddling this plague ridden prison as a petting zoo. You lead the camera through the ruins of the area, letting the ASPCA workers get caught in the background of your shot. Then you hit your mark, a small woman with a tiny bunny in her hands.

"This is Brenda," you tell the camera. "She's been working for the ASPCA for fifteen years. Brenda, tell us what will happen to these animals now."

Brenda does well during the interview. She's experience in animal rescues and names the sanctuary that is ready to take in all the animals rescued here today. You ask her about local pet adoptions and she gives a shout out to animal shelters across the city.

"Thank you, Brenda, for everything you do."

"Thank you for helping us spread the word!"

Mercedes comes back over the net to pick up the broadcast.

"_Is it warm outside, Santana?"_

"No," you smile curiously at the camera, "it's maybe thirty degrees out."

"_Oh, I thought it had warmed up, maybe it's just the lighting that's so much better."_

Something about the way she says it makes you blush, "Thank you, Mercedes. Have a good time in that cozy newsroom of yours. We'll be out here saving poor little animals."

"_I will!"_

You keep smiling until Brittany gives you the all clear.

"That was great," she says with a broad smile. "Thank you, Brenda."

"Yeah," you turn to the ASPCA officer and shake her hand, "thank you so much, you were perfect. Here's a card with the info on how to request a copy of the broadcast."

"Thank you!"

The ASPCA still has a lot of work to do, but you pass out a few more cards so that they'll all know where to get the news coverage. Brittany is busy packing up her equipment when you get back to the van.

"That went really well," she beams at you from inside the back of the van. "I can't believe you kept from making a face at the smell."

"Ugh," your whole body revolts. "Please don't remind me."

She laughs and holds her hand open. It's second nature to put pass her the mic, and you know she's going to need the receiver and earpiece next, so those come off too. Brenda let you hose down your galoshes, thankfully. So you stick those in the bin near the back door with Brittany's.

"You thinking Red Robins?" she asks as she climbs out of the van. "I could use a burger."

"No," you shake your head, "after seeing those poor goats and little pigs caged up and sad like that, I'm going to be a vegetarian for at least three days."

"I bet you don't even last 'til dinner."

"Still," you know she's probably right, "at least until I can get this smell out of my nose."

"Let's hit the road then," she stretches next to you, rolling her camera arm. "Did Grace give you a second assignment?"

"No."

And it's so easy, falling back into your old routine with her. But you don't want that. You need to know.

"Why did you call me that night if you were just going to shut me out?"

Brittany blinks, confused. Then she realizes what you're talking about and she shuts down so quickly. She takes two full steps back, focusing on shutting the van doors to hide her face.

"Honestly, I thought you would handle it better."

"Excuse me?" you're more than a little insulted by that. "How else was I supposed to handle that?"

"I don't know," she covers her face with her hands. It's clear that she's frustrated with you for bringing this up. "Maybe try a little decency? And not demand to know everything about my life?"

"I was worried—"

"It's called discretion, Santana," Brittany starts moving around the van and you have to jog to keep up. "How many times did say I didn't want to talk about it?"

Your stomach twists, "A couple."

Brittany spins on her heel, speaking in a hushed irritation, "You kept pushing. You made me feel like I was an interview. Maybe if I had said _no comment_, you would have backed off!"

"I didn't… I didn't mean for that."

"I needed a friend," she admits, eyes shifting to the SNX6 logo on the side of the news van, "not a reporter."

You regret everything.

"Look, I'm sorry, I was stupid," you're quick to berate yourself. "I'm an idiot and insensitive and—"

"Kind of a bitch," she finishes shortly.

"I'm a bitch that is really, very, sorry," you duck your head to catch her eye. When she looks you can say what you mean, "And I've missed you, because… you're more than a just a friend from work to me, Britt. You've always been more than that."

She looks genuinely surprised by your words, and that bugs the crap out of you.

Before all this, before the jailbreak and the week she disappeared, you thought the two of you were actually best friends. You can't count the number of times you've been to her place, or the number of times she's been to yours. It was normal to spend weekends together and get drinks after work. You used to watch stupid movies and gossip about the people from the office and it was great and you miss her.

You miss her so much and you know she misses you too, somewhere in there, she misses you.

Brittany toes the ground and mumbles, "I didn't mean that, I was upset and really super embarrassed and I… I was convinced that you would stop talking to me so I tried to, you know, beat you to it or something. I'm sorry."

With each word your heart is stitched back together.

She still cares.

"I can't take back how I acted," you say against the cold wind, "but I'm sorry, and I promise to never talk about it, and I'll try to never go crazy reporter on you again."

Brittany looks at you for a very long time. Whatever she's deciding is important, you hope you turn out to be worth her trust. Finally she accepts your apology with a tiny nod and one of her own, "I'm sorry I didn't call about my time off."

"It's okay, you're allowed to have your space."

Hearing you say that seems to mean a lot to her. She steps forward, raising her arms slowly, "Can I hug you?"

You don't mean to sound so desperate when you whisper, "Please."

Brittany wraps her arms around you. It's good and it's sincere and this feels like where you belong.

"You're freezing," she mumbles into your hair.

You laugh, you haven't felt this warm in such a long time.


End file.
